"So," you say offhandedly, picking at a rip on Miller's truck seat. "Clara Grant. This is new?"

Miller shrugs, tapping his hands against the steering wheel. You're sitting in bumper to bumper traffic—you have been for the past hour—on the way home from a day's excursion into the city, the first time you and Miller have hung out just you in days.

He says, “She’s just Clara.”

You glance at him. “You used to say I was just me too.”

He looks over, his eyes soft. “Yeah. That was before I knew what that meant.”